“Let’s be havin’ yer, then, me lads!” the petty officer said, and released them with a brisk clinking of metal. Kydd rubbed his wrists.
High above, a figure in a gold-laced coat and black cocked hat appeared at the deck edge. “What the devil – My God, get those men inboard at once, or I’ll have the hide off someone’s back, I swear!”
The sailor moved quickly. “That prick Garrett,” he muttered. “Watch, you bleedin’ lubbers – like this!”
He moved easily along the gunwale of the hoy to where a series of small steps marched vertically up the tumble home of the ship’s side. On each side were handropes, shiny with use. Stepping lightly across at the highest point of the hoy’s wallow, in one movement he transferred his weight to step and handrope simultaneously and swarmed up the ship’s side.
The remaining sailor blustered at them from behind, and the first moved forward. He grabbed the ropes but his feet slipped on the rain-slick wood and he fell into the sea, still dangling from the rope. He squealed in fright until the sailor hoisted him up by the scruff of his neck. The others held back in fear. “Fer Chrissake, get up there!” the sailor urged.
No one moved. The hoy rose and fell, the slap of waves between the two vessels loud and forbidding.
Something stirred in Kydd. He pushed the others aside, snatched a look upward and acted as he had seen the seaman do. He jumped across the chasm between the two vessels, his feet scrabbled on the narrow step and he paused to gather his strength. Then he began to climb, not daring to look down. A sudden shaking of the handrope showed that his example had been followed.